she is.

She is a worrier. Let me restate myself. She is a warrior. She observes. She thinks. She fights on. Waters try overflowing her. Others free her. She tries freeing herself. She is trapped. She is a dreamer. A doer. Can she see herself? Why not? You ask for water. She provides the ocean. Waters crash about. She struggles to float. Lightning strikes down. Thunder rolls in. Clouds overhead. Is she dead? She holds on. She breathes in hope. She exhales death. She is emotionally inundated. Screams pout out. No one hears her. That’s okay she says. I’m fine she exclaims. Is that her façade? No one knows anymore. Winds move the current. She goes with it. She is the ocean. Deep, rough, and gentle. She holds the light. She holds the darkness. She speaks in riddles. Some she doesn’t understand. She is a puzzle. Others can’t finish it. It’s better that way. She is weeded out. She is rooted again. It’s a vicious cycle. She is you. She is me.